They came on in dense column,—the brave Chasseurs of the Guard, the bronzed warriors of Jena and Wigram; but to my eyes they seemed sterner and sadder than their wont, and heeded not the loud “vivas” of the mob around them. Where were their eagles? Alas! the white banner that floated over their heads was a poor substitute for the proud ensign they had so often followed to victory. And here weie the dragoons,—old Kellermann's brave troopers; their proud glances were changed to a mournful gaze upon that crowd whose cheers they once felt proud of: and there, the artillery, that glorious corps which he loved so well,—did not the roll of their guns sound sorrowfully on the ear!
They passed! And then came on a strange cortege of mounted cavaliers,—old and withered men, in uniforms of quaint antique fashion, their chapeaux decorated with great cockades of white ribbon, and their sword-knots garnished with similar ornaments; the order of St. Louis glittered on each breast, and in their bearing you might read the air of men who were enjoying a long-wished-for and long-expected triumph. These were the old seigneurs of the Monarchy; and truly they were not wanting in that look of nobility their ancient blood bestowed. Their features were proud; their glance elated; their very port and bearing spoke that consciousness of superiority, to crush which had cost all the horrors and bloodshed of a terrible Revolution. How strange! it seemed as if many of their faces were familiar to me,—I knew them well; but where, and how, my memory could not trace. Yes, now I could recall it: they were the frequenters of the old “Pension of the Rue de Mi-Carême,”—the same men I had seen in their day of adversity, bearing up with noble pride against the ills of fortune. There they were, revelling in the long-sought-after restoration of their former state. Were they not more worthy of admiration in their hour of patient and faithful watching, than in this the period of their triumph?
The pressure of the crowd obliged the cavalcade to halt. And now the air resounded with the cries of “Vive le Roi!”—the long-forgotten cheer of loyalty. Thousands re-echoed the shout, and the horsemen waved their hats in exultation. “Vive le Roi!” cried the mob, as though the voices had not called “Vive l'Empereur!” but yesterday.
“Down with the Napoleonist,—down with him!” screamed a savage-looking fellow, who, jammed up in the crowd, pointed towards me, as I stood a mere spectator of the scene.
“Cry 'Vive le Roi!' at once,” whispered a voice near me, “or the consequences may be serious. The mob is ungovernable at a moment like this.”
A dozen voices shouted out at the same time, “Down with him! down with him!”
“Off with your hat, sir!” said a rude-looking fellow beside me, as he raised his hand to remove it.
“At your peril!” said I, as I clenched my hand, and prepared to strike him down the moment he should touch me.
The words were not well uttered, when the crowd closed on me, and a hundred arms were stretched out to attack me. In vain all my efforts to resist. My hat was torn from my head, and assailed on every side, I was dragged into the middle of the street, amid wild cries of vengeance and taunting insults. It was then, as I lay overcome by numbers, that a loud cry to fall back issued from the cavalcade, and a horseman, sword in hand, dashed upon the mob, slashing on every side as he went, mounted on a high-mettled horse. He cleared the dense mass with the speed of lightning, and drove back my assailants.